


Scales

by Siggy1998



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boxing, Drama, F/M, Romance, mermaid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-06
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 08:53:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5369270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siggy1998/pseuds/Siggy1998
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Levi Ackerman is the athletic director at Maria High, the shittiest little public school in Shiganishina. He can't really complain, though; his house is nice and his roommate can clean, his cat is too fat to claw anything, and his job is steady and somewhat relates to his college education. The only problem is that he's hopelessly attracted to one of his students, a rising senior whom everyone calls Reaper.<br/>The doctors' visits stopped when Reaper's mother died and father disappeared off the face of the planet, but her "illness" did not. Instead of her skin bubbling up into scaly protuberances upon coming in contact with water, now her legs fuse together into an appendage all to reminiscent of a creature that is not supposed to exist.<br/>When Reaper finally hands Jean Kirschtein's sorry ass back to him - he had it coming and everyone knew it - the only way to avoid expulsion is to join the school's boxing team, and the only way to make the team is for her to be trained over the summer by none other than Levi Ackerman. But with repressed feelings, a bully determined to make her disappear, and a fishy little secret, Reaper is going to have a hell of a time of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. We've All Got Problems but Some of Us Have it Worse Than Others

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tread Carefully](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045642) by [erenyaegrr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/erenyaegrr/pseuds/erenyaegrr). 



Levi’s POV

            “Hey, slow poke!” I heard Jean Kirschtein call. She didn’t even turn around, even though I knew she was aware Kirschtein was calling her. “I’m talking to you, Reaper!”

            “I know,” she said evenly, continuing to walk away from him and his little group and towards the opposite wall of the gymnasium.

            Zoralee Durmango – better known around the school as Reaper – wasn’t necessarily the most popular student. She was smart, sure. She was extraordinarily intelligent, so my colleagues had told me, but that didn’t get you very far in high school. She was almost completely indifferent to all school happenings, she wore loose black clothes even in the heat of almost-summer, she never attended a school dance, and the few words that ever came out of her mouth were bitterly sarcastic. She wasn’t exactly the kind of girl that people fell all over themselves for, so it didn’t surprise me when I caught Kirschtein bullying her on the first day of her junior year and every day since.

            “Running away from me? Oh wait. You can’t run!”

            “If that’s all that you have to ridicule me about then I guess I’m not messing my life up too badly,” she said. I suppressed the urge to chuckle.

            Kirschtein rolled his eyes and was about to call out again, but his friend Bodt put a hand on his shoulder.

            “Stop being mean to her, Jean,” he said gently.

            “Listen to your friend, Kirschtein,” I said from my seat on the bleachers, hopefully sounding a lot less pissed off than I actually was. The boy probably looked mortified, but I was too busy seething and watching my students attempt a 40 yard dash to pay attention to him.

            Reaper lined up behind Krista Lenz and stuffed her hands in the pockets of her basketball shorts. When it was her turn she did pitifully, as I had come to expect from her. She really was slow.

            “Durmango!” I called. She whipped around to see who the call had come from, and when her eyes lit on me she grimaced. Jogging at the speed of a walk over to me, she stood in front of me with her hands in her pockets. I wondered if she was crossing her fingers.

            “Yes, Coach Ackerman?” she asked, not out of breath.

            “Care to tell me about your shit performance?”

            She sighed and ran a hand over her hair. It was pulled up in a bun at the back of her head, but little dark wisps were starting to pull out of it and float around her head like a halo.

            “Honestly Coach, haven’t you come to expect it after all this time with me?”

            I hummed in recognition.

            “I suppose,” I said. “It still doesn’t explain why you’re so slow yet you hardly ever break a sweat.”

            “I’m just slow.”

            I hummed again and waved her on, making her do the dash again.

            That was the last class of the day, so when it was over so was school. I sighed in relief. I hated that place just as much as any of the brats that attended it, even if I was a faculty member. When the bell rang I yelled at the brats to go to the locker rooms and head home before going to the coaches’ lounge and sitting behind my desk. As usual I saw Reaper walk out of the gymnasium without showering – she passed my office door. I wasn’t stalking. I looked back down at my desk and ran my fingers through my hair.

            My name is Levi Ackerman. At the time I was thirty-four, five-foot-three, and the director of athletics at Maria High, a shitty public school in a backwards shitstain of a town called Shiganshina. My salary was shit, but I managed to get a house in a decent neighborhood with the assistance of Hanji, the head of the science department, on the condition that she moved in with me. All in all my life wasn’t that bad. I had a cat named Sawney who was too fat to claw up my drapes, I had a stable job, I had a house in a neighborhood not known for break-ins or drive-by’s, and I had all my limbs. But I did have a slight problem.

            I looked out of my window and saw Reaper walking back to the building which housed her locker. I followed the sway of her hips with my eyes and then slammed my eyelids shut, shaking my head.

            I was hopelessly attracted to one of my students, and had been for a month.

 

Reaper’s POV

            I got my bike and pedaled, pedaled, pedaled until I was off of campus, heading towards the edge of town. I passed several grocers and drug stores, a side-of-the-road watermelon stand, a homeless man with a fairly full cup of change, and the private school, Sina Academy. I knew I was almost at the edge of town when I noticed the houses starting to be built on stilts.

            When I said “edge” I meant it. Shiganshina was a seaside town, bordered on the east by a strip of the Atlantic Ocean.

            I ditched my bike on a grassy sand dune before chucking off my shoes and socks and tucking them into the basket. I dumped my backpack beside my bike and didn’t look out at the water, instead staring down at my bare feet as they shuffled through the sand. Once I noticed the sand becoming more compact and smooth I looked up, gazing out at the water.

            That day it was beautiful. The sky was crystal blue and endless, dotted with wispy white clouds and a bright sun; the sand was coarse and tan and warm against my feet; and the water… they water rippled with fine, faceted waves whose texture reminded me of cut glass. It was dark blue and gorgeous, but clear when it came up to the shore and tried to lap at my toes. I kept my feet rooted in the loose sand, protected from any unwanted wetness. Plopping down, I rolled back for a moment before coming to firmly sit on my ass, my legs splayed and elbows resting on my bent knees.

            “Thought you’d be here,” said a voice. I looked up and saw Eren, Armin, and Mikasa standing near me, though Eren was the nearest. He must have been the one who spoke.

            “Yeah,” I said, looking back out at the water. Three loose plops in the sand. The trio must have sat down.

            There was a time when they would have asked me why I was out here all the time, but that time was a two and a half years earlier, when they were still in the shelter and I was still green there. We would come out to the beach together and play in the ocean. That was when we were all still expecting our parents to come pick us up any day. That was when it was still a skin condition.

            But now the trio was out of the shelter and living with Armin’s grandfather. Now all of us had stopped wishing for our parents to come back and my little problem was a hell of a lot more than a skin condition.

            Eren, Armin, and Mikasa talked beside me, exchanging little stories about how school had gone and how much homework they had and how Eren wanted to punch Kirschtein in his stupid horse-like face (I did too, but that was beside the point). I dug my hands into the sand before lifting them and watching the coarse grains pour through the gaps in my fingers.

            “Hey! Let’s all play in the water!”

            I tensed up at Eren’s words. There was no way I was getting in that water, but there was also no way Eren would take no for an answer. After all, I had loved it when I was younger. Why wouldn’t I love it now?

            Armin and Mikasa agreed enthusiastically. Eren turned to me and found that my jaw was clenched.

            “Are you okay, Reaper?” he asked.

            “I’m fine,” I lied. “I just don’t want to play in the water.”

            “Why not? It’ll be fun!” smiled Armin sunnily. I thought he was one of the cutest creatures on the planet, and it hurt to say no.

            “I don’t really like getting wet much anymore,” I answered. Eren rolled his eyes and tugged Armin up to standing and dragged him out into the water, the blonde complaining that the bottoms of his jeans were getting wet but laughing anyway. Mikasa soon followed the two and joined in the fun.

            And it did look like fun. It really did, and I was sad that I couldn’t participate. But I had to look out for myself, and one little mess-up could have me in a holding tank and my friends running. So I stayed put, watching my friends splash and kick and shove each other in the water until I couldn’t take it anymore.

            “I’m gonna head out, guys!” I called. They were so immersed in each other that they didn’t even notice. I called out again only to face the same reaction. I sighed and shrugged, pulling myself up to standing and brushing sand off my shorts.

            I left them playing in the ocean, happy and carefree, taken care of and not freaks.

            Everything I wasn’t.


	2. Problems: Fishy and Not-So-Fishy

Levi’s POV

            She was slow in class, so when I heard that she had gotten into a fight I expected either a) for it to have stayed with harsh words or maybe a slap to the face, or b) for her to have ended up in the hospital. What I hadn’t expected was for Reaper to have been found standing over a bruised and bloodied Jean Kirschtein with nothing but scraped knuckles and a split lip. I knew it wasn’t necessarily befitting of the salutatorian of the junior class (senior class, now that exams were over), but I also couldn’t help but feel glad that she had finally beat the shit out of the bastard.

            I was called into Erwin’s office that day, which was the last day of the school year, to find her sitting calmly in front of his desk. The dean of students looked up when he heard the door open, his large eyebrows rising in question before recognizing the intruder as me.

            “Ah, Levi,” he said. I noticed that Reaper’s fist clenched on her lap when she heard my name. “We were just discussing you.”

            “Nothing good, I hope,” I said.

            “Of course not.”

            I sat in the chair beside Reaper’s and nodded at her. She tightened her lips in reply.

            “So what exactly did you need from me?” I asked, crossing one leg over the other.

            “As you may know, Miss Durmango here got into a fight with Jean Kirschtein earlier today.” Reaper winced at the memory. “You also know that our school has a zero tolerance policy for violence and bullying. That means that she would normally be expelled.”

            “Normally?”

            “Miss Durmango seems to be a special case. Because she lives in a youth shelter she is required to go to school, and because this is the only public school in this town… you get the picture.”

            I looked over at the girl beside me, at her young face and her icy eyes and her black hair. _She was in a youth shelter?_

            “So we’ve come up with a compromise,” Erwin continued. “We’ve decided that if she plays a sport and maintains her salutatorian status next year she can stay.”

            “She’s not exactly the most athletic person. Are you sure the sport thing is going to work out?”

            “She managed to grind the school’s best boxer to a pulp. I think she’s athletic enough.”

            “Alright, so she’s athletic enough. What does this have to do with me?”

            Erwin cast a glance at Reaper before speaking.

            “She doesn’t know how to play any sports. That’s where you come in.”

            “Are you asking me to spend my summer teaching a brat how to play sports?” I scoffed, though I _really_ didn’t mind the prospect of spending more time with Reaper. Fuck fuck _fuck_ I was so fucked up.

            The girl in question wasn’t looking at either of us; rather, she was looking blankly out of the window at the little patch of ocean visible in the distance. I would have thought she looked peaceful had it not been for her fist which she clenched on her lap, squeezing itself so hard that her knuckles were white.

            Erwin sighed.

            “Yes. I know now that it was too much to ask. I’m sorry, Levi. You may go,” he said.

            “I never said I wouldn’t do it.”

            Reaper’s head turned a fraction, allowing her to look at me from the corners of her eyes. Erwin’s face lit up as much as it was capable of, which meant some version of happiness contorted his face into something akin to professional contentment, like when an employee turns in a report early.

            “Thank you, Levi,” he said before giving a pointed glance to the girl beside me.

            “Thank you, Coach Ackerman,” she said. I hummed.

            “When would you like to start your training?” Erwin asked her.

            “Never, honestly,” she said. “But since I have to do it then I guess as soon as possible. If I’m going to be playing a sport I want to have some time to get decent.”

            I nodded, understanding completely.

            “I’ll give you the weekend off, Durmango,” I said. But come Monday morning I’ll be at your shelter at eight a.m.”

            She nodded.

            “Thank you, sir,” she said.

            “Well that just about covers it,” said Erwin, clapping his hands once. I nodded and watched as Reaper promptly stood from her chair, eager to leave. “You both may go.”

            “Thank you, Mr. Smith. Have a good summer,” she said quietly, nearly bolting from the room after she spoke. I stood and, after bidding Erwin farewell, followed her out of the office.

            I found her halfway down the hallway. I called out to her and she stopped, turning in place and waiting for me to catch up.

            “What is it?” she asked.

            “Which shelter do you live in?”

            “Promise House,” she said. “It’s downtown.”

            “And what sports are you most interested in?”

            She looked away, pained.

            “None, unless you have a secret MMA team.”

            “Mixed martial arts?”

            She nodded.

            “Is that why you were able to beat Kirschtein up? Not that I’m complaining. Horse-face had it coming.”

            She smiled for a second before it dropped off her face.

            “Yeah,” she said. “I take tae kwon do.”

            “We might be able to train you in wrestling or boxing, but for wrestling we’d need a female coach. I’m not rolling around on the floor with a seventeen year old girl.”

            “Fifteen,” she corrected me. I had to forcibly keep my eyes from widening.

            “How are you only fifteen?”

            “I skipped a grade in middle school. I turn sixteen in August.”

            I wanted to swear, and punch, and cry. I, a thirty-four-year-old man, a grown adult, was falling all over a fifteen-year-old girl. Not woman, but _girl_. I was so fucked. I didn’t need to reread _Lolita_ to see why that was a horrible idea.

            “Anyway, I’d rather do boxing than wrestling.”

            I nodded and tried to shake all inappropriate thoughts regarding the girl in front of me from my head.

            “I’ll bring boxing gear, then. I’ll ask Erwin if we can use the school’s ring.”

            “Anything else?” she asked.

            “No. Run along.”

            She said okay and turned around, shoving her hands in her pockets and walking away. I tried not to notice how her hair stuck up at odd angles where it had pulled out of its bun, tried not to watch the way her hips swayed slightly as she walked, tried not to imagine myself doing highly inappropriate things with her.

            I waited several minutes before taking the same route out of the building, making sure that Reaper was long gone. I stopped by my office to retrieve several of my belongings and shove them in a gym bag, then continued my trek until I was outside in the parking lot. I walked over to my car, a tan 2007 Camry that had seen better days (I had nicknamed it the Shitpipe), and chucked the bag in the back before slipping into the driver’s seat myself. I turned on the radio to something loud and distracting, hoping to chase Reaper from my thoughts. It didn’t work.

            After ten minutes of driving I found myself in my driveway, staring up at my home. Like I had said, my salary was shit, but I had managed to get a nice house with Hanji. Her car was already in the garage, so I pulled in beside her and took special precautions not to knock the driver’s side mirror off the Shitpipe. Once parked I grabbed my bag from the back and got out of the car, nearly tripping over Sawney when he came into the garage through the cat door and tangled himself between my legs.

            “Could you be any more annoying?” I asked the black cat with a serious weight problem. He merely meowed at me. I kicked without touching him and he scampered several feet away, standing there and waiting for me to close the Shitpipe’s door and come inside. “I’m coming. I’m coming.”

            I slung the bag’s strap over my shoulder and walked inside, twisting the garage door’s knob and finding that Hanji had left it unlocked again. I pressed the button beside the door and the slide-down garage door began descending from the ceiling and shielding Hanji’s car and the Shitpipe from greedy hands or vengeful keys. Going inside, I set my bag down on the kitchen counter and toed off my shoes.

            “Is that you?” called Hanji from somewhere in the house. Probably her little studio where she tinkered with various mechanical gadgets.

            “No matter who you ask that the answer will always be the same,” I responded.

            “It’s definitely you.”

            I picked up my shoes and bag and walked through the living room until I reached the door to my bedroom. I turned the knob with my forearms and nudged the door open with my shoulder before entering, finding everything just as I had left it that morning: bed neatly made with white sheets, two pillows at the head of the bed, a cushy armchair with a floor lamp and a throw blanket in the corner, a Picasso print hanging above the bed, an upholstered bench sitting at the bed’s foot, and two bookshelves filled with books lining one wall. I set my bag down on the bench and emptied it of its contents: a folding picture frame with one picture of Sawney and one of my mother, my travel coffee mug with a slosh of cold coffee still inside, a spare pair of shoes, etc. Once empty I put all of the bag’s contents away before shoving the bag itself on a shelf in my closet. I took a quick shower without jerking off and then changed into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and going out into the living room.

            I found Hanji coming out of her studio with her hands covered in motor oil.

            “Want a hug, Shorty?” she asked.

            “You’re fucking stupid,” I grumbled. She laughed and continued on her way to the guest bathroom to wash her hands. I stood outside the open door.

            “So what’s got you coming home so late? You’re normally here half an hour earlier,” Hanji asked.

            “Erwin called me into his office. I have to spend my summer teaching some brat how to play sports or else she gets kicked out of school for fighting.”

            “Wasn’t that Reaper Durmango? I heard she got into a fight with Jean Kirschtein. Sent him to the hospital, I think.”

            “The brat deserved it,” I said, unwittingly coming to Reaper’s aid.

            “Reaper or Jean?”

            “Kirschtein.”

            “I have to agree with you there. There’s not been one day he hasn’t said something homophobic to Armin.”

            “Armin” was Armin Arlert, a physically below-average boy with one of the most brilliant minds Hanji had ever encountered. He quickly became her favorite student, and she had supported him whole-heartedly when he had come out as gay. The rest of the school… not so much, as evidenced by Kirschtein’s insensitive remarks. I did find it odd that he would be at all homophobic; I had always been under the impression that he was dating his freckled friend, Marco Bodt. I guessed I was wrong.

            “So I take it that you’re not all that excited about training Reaper during the summer,” Hanji stated. I hummed, not trusting my voice. I was simultaneously looking forward to and dreading spending my summer with the girl. “Why’d you agree to it, then?”

            _Because I can’t let the object of my affections get kicked out of school_.

            “I can’t just let her get kicked out of school. She’d probably get kicked out of her shelter if she gets kicked out of school.”

            “Shelter?”

            “Yeah. She lives at Promise House, apparently.”

            She finished ridding her hands of motor oil and dried her palms on her pants despite the fact that there was a roll of paper towels on the counter. Turning around, she left the bathroom and went to plop down on the couch. I followed her and sat in my designated armchair, picking up the nearest book and placing it in my lap.

            “What are you reading this time?” Hanji asked.

            I looked down at the title and almost groaned. _Lolita_.

            “ _Lolita_ , apparently.” _How fitting_.

            “Lusting after one of your students, I guess,” she joked, not realizing just how spot-on she was.

            “No. I’m lusting after Erwin. He just reminds of me of a twelve-year-old girl,” I deadpanned, cracking open the weathering book and praying that the cover wouldn’t fall off. It didn’t.

            Hanji cackled and tucked her arms behind her head, placing her shoed feet on the couch.

            “Get your shoes off the couch, Shitty Glasses,” I told her. She groaned but toed off the sneakers and let them drop haphazardly to the floor.

            We were silent for about two hours, Hanji falling asleep on the couch and me cringing at the words of Vladimir Nabokov in the voice of Humbert Humbert. It made me sick to watch the protagonist fall for a twelve-year-old girl, an emotion I desperately needed. I tried not to remind myself that Reaper was almost sixteen instead of twelve and I was thirty-four instead of thirty-eight. The age gap was still tremendous, not to mention illegal.

            I closed the book at around five-thirty and bookmarked my page with a tissue. I coughed loudly to wake Hanji (she had always been a light sleeper) and told her it was time to start making dinner. She reluctantly put her glasses back on and got up from the couch, me not far behind her as we headed for the kitchen.

            That night we ate beef stew and went to bed early, me making a note on my phone to email Erwin about using the school boxing ring on Monday. The last thing I thought about before slipping into sleep was _Lolita_ , how I was so fucked.

 

Reaper’s POV

            When I got to Promise House I checked in with the woman behind the front desk and then headed for my room, a room I shared with, thankfully, no one.

            I stank, and I knew it. I could still smell Kirschtein’s blood on my clothes and my own sweat, so I stripped and headed to my private bathroom, locking the door. I left my stinking clothes in a heap on the floor and turned on the water, quickly retracting my hand from the tub and drying my arm on a towel. I couldn’t let it happen yet. I still needed to get in the tub.

            As the imitation porcelain tub filled I watched the fresh water ripple and foam under the faucet, reminding me too much of the ocean I loved so much. I dipped my hand into the water to check its temperature before drying it off on the same towel. Once the tub was full I carefully turned off the faucet, then put the towel onto the ground beside the tub for an easy reach. I took a deep breath.

            I stepped into the water and immediately felt the scales start to form. It used to stop there. It used to be a skin condition, but not now. I quickly sat down to avoid falling over (that had happened far too many times) and stretched my legs out, letting my feet poke out of the water. I closed my eyes and let myself feel.

            The transition from skin to scales was never terribly pleasant, with scales bubbling up along my legs and forming hard black, white, or teal disks along the skin. I winced and clenched my fist on the side of the tub until I knew my knuckles were white. I felt my legs starting to fuse and I almost cried out at the pain.

            After the usual thirty seconds it was over. I opened my eyes to find that my legs were gone, instead replaced by a long black tail with white and teal speckles. On its sides were gauzy black dorsal fins, not unlike those of a beta fish. The tail stuck haphazardly out of the side of the tub, being that the appendage was around four feet long by itself.

            It was always a surreal experience, feeling my tail and fins and how the nerves wired together, how the sensation in my feet was replaced by the sensation in my tail fin. I flopped my tail fin and listened to it plop somewhat wetly against the side of the tub, then ran my fingers along the side of my neck. Little ridges, and I knew I had found my gills. I wondered how it was that I could still breathe air if I had gills.

            I dunked my head under the water and breathed, feeling like it was the first time I had breathed in ages. My eyes were open but they didn’t sting, and I could see everything so clearly. It was clearer than air.

            I stayed there for several minutes, flipping my tail and watching the bathroom light play off my scales. I wondered if I’d ever find a place to swim instead of simply soaking in a borrowed bathtub. Lifting my head out of the water I squeezed my hair out into the tub and reached for the soap.

            There was a mirror on the other side of the bathroom, one that was angled down enough that I could see myself in the tub. I looked at myself, tail and all, before running my hands down my scales and feeling their ridges.

            I knew what children would call me – a mermaid. I knew what scientists would call me – a new breakthrough. I knew what everyone else would call me – a freak of nature. A fish. I silently wondered what I really was, and I found myself believing the last option.

            I was a freak, and there was no denying it.


	3. All In All, a Good Day

Levi’s POV

            That Monday I showed up at Promise House at exactly eight a.m., boxing gear in the trunk and key to the gymnasium in my pocket. I was about to park my car when I saw that Reaper was already waiting for me, sitting on the side of a large concrete flower planter. When she saw me pull up she squinted to see who was in the driver’s seat. I made a motion with my arm to tell her to come on, so she stuffed her phone in her pocket and made her way to the shotgun seat. She opened the door and slid in, closing the door and buckling her seatbelt.

            “We’re practicing at the school,” I told her, shifting the Shitpipe back into drive and driving away. Reaper hummed.

            “Are you training me or did you get someone else?” she asked. I flexed my hands on the wheel.

            “I was a championship boxer in high school and college. I think I can teach you.”

            She nodded.

            We rode mostly in silence, Reaper looking out of the passenger’s side window and leaning her chin against the seatbelt. We passed Sina Academy, a homeless man with a fairly full cup of change, a side-of-the-road watermelon stand, and several grocers and drug stores on our way to the school. I read the name of each store and silently tapped out the syllables on the steering wheel, but I couldn’t quite keep my thoughts away from Reaper. Why was she in that shelter? Why had she gotten into that fight with Kirschtein? Why couldn’t I get her out of my head?

            “I know you’re wondering why I’m at Promise House,” Reaper said suddenly. I wondered if I had said it out loud. “To put it simply my mom’s dead and I have no idea where my dad is. There was never much in the way of abuse, so you don’t have to pity me if that’s what this is.”

            “I’m not training you out of pity,” I said. A partial lie, but she didn’t need to know that. “I’m training you because I don’t want you to get kicked out of school. That’s it.”

            She hummed again.

            By this time I could see the school. I pulled into the parking lot by the gymnasium and parked the car near the door, then let out a breath before getting out of the Shitpipe. I went around to the trunk and popped it open, getting out two bags of equipment and hiking them over my shoulders.

            “I’ll take one, if you want,” Reaper offered. I looked up to see that she was leaning against the side of the Shitpipe watching me get the equipment out of the trunk. I handed one of the bags to her and she put the strap over her shoulder.

            I led her to the side door where the boxing ring would be and stuck my key in the doorknob. Swinging open the door I told her to get inside and put the equipment on the bleachers. I reached inside and flipped on the light switch, bathing the room in dim fluorescent light.

            The boxing ring wasn’t anything fancy, considering this was one of the shittiest public schools in the state, but it would do. There was a raised, padded ring and a concrete floor, several punching bags and speedbags suspended from the ceiling, and a small set of rickety walnut bleachers at the side of the room. I followed Reaper over to them and placed my bag beside hers. She sat down beside her bag and looked expectantly up at me, her hands in the pocket of her sweatshirt which she was wearing despite the early June heat.

            “There’s a spare pair of sweatpants and some bandages in one of these bags,” I said. “Do you know how to wrap your hands?”

            She shook her head.

            “I’ll show you then,” I said.

            I fished the bandages out of the bag and then sat down beside Reaper, motioning for her to turn sideways on the bleachers. She did and I took one of her hands and began to wrap it.

            “It’s like this,” I said, trying not to let my voice shake. I was touching her and I felt electricity running up my arms. I was so fucked.

            She watched my hands attentively and I ripped the bandage when I was done, quickly retracting my hands and tossing the roll at her. She caught it dexterously and wrapped her other hand in exactly the way I had shown her. She really was a fast learner.

            When she was done and her hands were wrapped she dug the sweatpants out of the bag. They still had tags on them.

            “You bought these for me?” she asked.

            “Don’t shit yourself over it, Durmango,” I replied.

            “You didn’t have to. If I can fight Kirschtein in jeans I can-“

            “I did and I didn’t get a receipt. Just deal with it.”

            She nodded and went to the bathroom to change her pants. When she came out I noticed that she had rolled up the hems of the sweatpants and tied the drawstring tightly enough that the waistband was ruffled. It was then that I noticed just how tiny she was – those were smalls from the women’s section at Walmart.

            She still wore her sweatshirt and, as I assumed that she didn’t have anything on underneath it, I didn’t ask her to take it off. She came over and I gave her a soft helmet, a clean mouth guard, and a pair of boxing gloves. When she started to toe off her shoes I stopped her.

            “This isn’t like martial arts,” I said. “Keep your shoes on.”

            She slipped her one discarded shoe back on. I tried to help her up into the ring but found that she was perfectly capable of climbing inside by herself.

            “Alright,” I said. “What I’m going to do first is assess you.”

            “Does that mean you’re just going to stare at me or does that mean we’re fighting?”

            “Fighting,” I said. “I want to know what I have to work with.”

            “Okay.”

            I positioned her in the center of the ring and told her to get ready. She put her mouth guard in, and I did the same.

            We circled each other for several moments, but I was the one who made the first move. I swung my fist and she swiftly ducked, sweeping her leg up and trying to kick me in the head. I was almost floored by her range of mobility, but I ducked and spat out my mouthpiece. I was shaking.

            “Hold up,” I said, trying not to let my voice waver. She held her leg straight up in the air for a second before lowering her foot back to the floor. “No kicking in normal boxing. Kicking is reserved for kickboxing.”

            She nodded and cringed. I took it that kicking was one of her signature moves.

            I put my mouthpiece back in and went back at her, trying to punch again. This time she blocked with her forearm and almost landed a solid punch to my nose, but I ducked out of the way.

            It went on like that for several minutes, neither of us landing a single punch. I finally screwed up and left my face unprotected for a mere second, but she noticed and planted a right hook squarely on my left cheek. I almost fell to the floor. She stepped back several steps and spat out her mouth piece, her eyes screwed up in concern.

            “Are you okay, Coach Ackerman?” she asked. I nodded and went to the opposite side of the ring, spitting out my own mouth piece. I leaned against the ropes and took a breather. It had been a long time since I’d boxed, and even longer since I’d had a good opponent.

            I was stunned that I was beaten by a fifteen-year-old girl with no prior boxing experience.

            We spent the rest of the three hours we were there working on footwork. She took to it fairly easily and I supposed she had learned much of this in tae kwon do. When we were done and in the middle of taking off our gear I told her to hit the showers.

            She froze in the middle of undoing one of her gloves.

            “I don’t smell bad, do I?” she asked.

            “You’re sweaty. I’m not letting you in my car if you’re sweaty.”

            “I can always walk back,” she said quickly. “I’ve got my headphones and I can listen to music on the way and-“

            “I’m not letting you walk home. Just take a shower.”

            “I’m not… great… with showers.”

            “What, do you take baths every night then?”

            She nodded.

            “They’re easier for me.”

            “How is waiting ten minutes for a bathtub to fill up easier than getting in and out of the shower?”

            “I don’t know what kind of bathtub you have, but it normally only takes about three minutes for mine to fill up.”

            “You know what I mean, brat.”

            She was silent for a moment, seemingly thinking.

            “Fine,” she said. “I’ll shower.”

            “Thank you.”

            She finished taking off her gear and sped off to the girls’ locker room, leaving me wondering why she was so averse to taking showers.

 

Reaper’s POV

            _I can do this. I can do this._

            I turned on the water to the coldest setting and then stepped under the spray, instantly feeling scales start to form along my calves. I scrubbed under my arms and the back of my neck, trying desperately not to get my hair wet, and then stepped out from the spray on wobbly legs. I quickly toweled myself off and felt the scales disappear, my legs steadying.

            I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding as I sat on the locker room floor.

            I put on my jeans and dirty sweatshirt before going back out and helping Coach Ackerman pack up. He looked at me strangely when he saw that my hair wasn’t wet.

            “You did shower, didn’t you?” he asked.

            “I just didn’t get my hair wet,” I said. “I’ll take a better bath when I get back to the shelter.”

            He hummed and dropped it.

            Once we were back in his car he spoke again.

            “Where do you want to eat?”

            I looked at him.

            “You don’t have to-“

            “I’m starving and I don’t want to wait for food, brat,” he said. “I don’t see you as a charity case. Now what do you want to eat?”

            I thought about it for a minute.

            “Anything. I don’t care,” I lied, not wanting to burden him further.

            “Good. We’re getting Chinese.”

            I smiled down at my lap. I had been hoping for Chinese.

            We drove by grocers and drugstores, that same side-of-the-road watermelon stand, the same profitable homeless man, and Sina Academy on the way to Hunan, a mediocre but cheap and plentiful Chinese place that I had had once when I first entered the shelter. Coach Ackerman parked the car and then got out, prompting me to exit the vehicle as well. We walked up to the front door of the restaurant, me slightly behind him, and entered, letting the aromas of wontons and eggrolls and questionable California rolls waft over us. I inhaled deeply and willed the memory to last forever.

            A sign told us to seat ourselves, so we found ourselves a two-seater table by a window. An elderly but sprightly waitress came and took our orders and I felt around in my jean pocket for the twenty I knew was there. I found it and shoved it farther down into my pocket. When the waitress left Coach Ackerman spoke.

            “Are you ever going to tell me why you’re so afraid of showers?”

            “I’m not afraid of showers,” I scoffed, lying. “I just don’t like them.”

            “Will you tell me why you don’t like them?”

            “No.”

            “Alright, then how long have you been taking martial arts lessons?”

            The waitress came back with a glass of water for me and a glass of unsweet tea for him. She left again.

            “I started taking lessons as a gift for my seventh birthday,” I said. “So almost nine years. How long did you box for?”

            “About seven years. I started in my sophomore year of high school and kept at it until I graduated college.”

            “Have you ever trained anyone before?”

            “In boxing? No.”

            I hummed and looked out the window. I prayed it wouldn’t rain. That would make things a bit difficult. I lifted my glass of water to my lips and carefully took a sip.

            “I did train a few swimmers, though.”

            I almost choked on my water, nearly spilling the glass in the process. I quickly set the glass down on the table and scooted away from it. _Why_ did everything have to involve water or swimming?

            “You alright, Durmango?” he asked.

            “I’m fine,” I coughed, looking at the small rings of condensation on the table. Once my heart slowed down I mopped up the rings with my napkin and scooted my chair back up to the table.

            Coach Ackerman shrugged and took a sip of his cold tea, not paying any mind to the ring of condensation he revealed when he lifted his glass. I envied him.

            “So you trained swimmers,” I said. “Continue.”

            “That’s it. It’s not like I trained Michael Phelps or anything. One of them found another trainer and went on to the Olympics, but he never medaled.”

            I nodded.

            “Do you do anything other than tae kwon do?” he asked me.

            “I play the piano. And I write. And I take long soaks in my tub,” I said ironically. “That’s about it.”

            “What is it with you and water?” he asked.

            I shook my head.

            “I’ll never tell.”

            “Why not?”

            I involuntarily made an odd noise from between my teeth and looked out the window.

            “Because I highly doubt you’d believe me if I told you.”

            He dropped the topic.

            “What’s your favorite subject in school?” he asked instead. I almost scoffed.

            “English,” I said.

            “I almost majored in English in college, but the required readings didn’t do it for me.”

            “What, you have to get your rocks off in order to read a book?”

            “Not like that, brat,” he scoffed, taking another sip of tea. “I mean that I’m very bad about completing assignments on time. I would always find another book to read.”

            “What was your favorite book, then?”

            “That I was required to read or that I read to get away from the required readings?”

            “Either.”

            “It’s not _Lolita_ , I’ll tell you that right now,” he said.

            “Isn’t that the pedophile book?”

            He nodded.

            “I guess my favorite was _Catcher in the Rye_.”

            I almost smiled. That was my favorite, too.

            “What about yours?” he asked.

            “Same thing.”

            “Why?”

            _Because both Holden and I are freaks with a lot of problems_.

            “Not sure,” I said instead. “I just really liked it.”

            “That’ll get you far on your essays.”

            “I’m sure it will.”

            Our food came, and I got the distinct feeling that it had been frozen and simply put in the oven. It was still good, though, and Coach Ackerman and I talked about books and movies and culture and a whole assortment of things I hadn’t thought he cared about. I learned that, despite the fact that he was an athletic director, he was extraordinarily well-read and almost shockingly intelligent. He gave me a list of books to read and I jotted them down in the notes section of my phone. I asked him what he had wanted to do with his degree and he said he had wanted to be a sports writer, but that working at Maria High wasn’t so bad a trade-off. We both knew he was lying about that. He asked me where I wanted to go to school (Harvard) and what I wanted to major in (English) and what I wanted to do with my degree (be a writer and live as a hermit by the sea, though I didn’t tell him that I wanted to be able to disappear into the ocean for days at a time and maybe never come back). I asked him about his boxing days and he told me that he had been disqualified in his last match in college for kicking someone in the head. He asked me about my writing and I told him that I mostly wrote short stories and fanfiction, though I was working on a full-length novel when I wasn’t doing schoolwork. He also asked me about my piano playing, and I told him that I had been teaching myself from the age of five and composing from the age of ten. He seemed impressed, but he was still difficult to read, so I couldn’t be sure.

            When we finished our food Coach Ackerman paid for both of our meals, though I protested vehemently (and quietly). We eventually tipped the waitress and left, going out into the muggy air and walking quickly to his car – he told me he called it the Shitpipe, and I thought it was an apt name.

            He dropped me off at Promise House and left me standing on its doorstep. We bid each other farewell before parting, and then I went into the building and checked in with the woman behind the front desk before heading to my room. Once in my room I closed the door and, once again, wished it locked. I shucked off my bra and sweatshirt and changed them out before collapsing on the bed I had called my own for the past two-and-a-half years. I sighed up at the ceiling.

            It had been a good day. There had been some close calls, but overall it had been a good day. I almost smiled, but instead turned over on my side and went to sleep, for once not dreaming about the ocean.


	4. A Day at the Beach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole time I was writing this I was listening to "Waiting for a Friend" by The Pretty Reckless. Still listening to it, honestly. I'm not going to be able to get it out of my head for days. Anyway, here's the new chapter of Scales. Enjoy!

Levi’s POV

            It went on like that until Friday, me training her for three hours before taking her out to lunch and bringing her back to the shelter. She was a fast learner, quickly picking up the appropriate footwork and integrating it into her own martial arts style. Whenever we boxed it always came close, and I won only about fifty percent of the time.

            Our lunch outings were my favorite part of it all; I got to learn more about her, and the more I learned the more I liked. I learned that she was enamored by anything _Harry Potter_ or Studio Ghibli, that she not only played the piano but the guitar and the violin as well, that she was fascinated by abnormal psychology, among other things. In turn I told her about Sawney and his obesity, about Hanji and her insane love for her little mechanical contraptions, and about my gross inability to play anything other than the piano. She promised to show me something on the guitar if she made the boxing team. I assured her that she would make the team.

            I had given her the weekends off, so I didn’t have to wake up at seven that Saturday. I slept in for a glorious three hours, waking up at ten instead. Once I was out of bed I slid on my slippers and trudged groggily into the kitchen to pour myself a bowl of cereal.

            “Hey, Shorty,” greeted Hanji. I found her standing in front of the sink washing out her own cereal bowl.

            “Hey, Shitty Glasses,” I said.

            “What are you doing today?” she asked.

            “I don’t know,” I said, opening one of the cabinets and taking down a bowl. I closed the cabinet door and almost tripped when Sawney weaved between my legs. “Maybe I’ll set my cat on fire.”

            “Sounds like a plan.”

            Sawney meowed in distress and Hanji laughed at him, flicking her wet fingers and sending little projectiles of water at him. He hissed and backed into the kitchen island.

            I shuffled over to the pantry and brought out the box of Cheerios only to find that it was empty.

            “What have I told you about putting empty boxes back in the pantry?” I asked Hanji.

            “To not to.”

            “And what did you do?”

            “Put an empty box back in the pantry.”

            “Are you going to do it again?”

            “Probably.”

            I shrugged and took the bag out of the cereal box and stuffed it in the garbage before stacking the box on the top of the pile we had under the breakfast bar. Apparently cereal box cardboard was very useful for various mechanical things in Hanji’s studio, so we kept all the empty boxes for her.

            I got another box of cereal out – Special K this time – and poured a bowl, then got out the milk and topped it off. I put both the carton of milk and the cereal box back in their places before digging out a spoon from our jumbled cutlery drawer and placing it in the bowl.

            “How has training with Reaper been going?” asked Hanji, turning to face me and then hopping up to sit on the kitchen counter.

            “You better wipe that area down once you’re done sitting on it,” I said, eying the place where her ass rested.

            “Yeah, yeah. How has training with Reaper been going?” she repeated excitedly. I rolled my eyes at her.

            “Really well, actually. She’s really good.”

            “When you say ‘really good’ do you mean really good for a beginner or just really good?”

            “Really good.”

            “Wow.”

            “She did try to kick me though. That only happened once.”

            “I trust you explained the rules to her, then.”

            I nodded and took a bite of my cereal. It was already soggy.

            “Apparently she’s been taking tae kwon do for almost nine years,” I said. “That’s probably why she took to boxing so quickly. Makes me wonder what she’d be capable of if she was allowed to kick.”

            “Does Maria have a kickboxing team?”

            “No. It should, but if we get any more funding it should go to the arts department, not a kickboxing team.”

            “The director of athletics saying that the arts department needs funding?”

            “It’s not my fault I hate my job.”

            Hanji shrugged and swung her feet, her heels lightly hitting the lower cabinets as she did so. I took another bite of cereal and swallowed, and then another, and then another.

            “Do you want to get Hunan later today?” asked Hanji. I shook my head.

            “Reaper and I got that on Monday.”

            “ _Reaper_ and you?”

            “I get her food after training every day, so sue me.”

            “Hey, I’m not saying anything against it. If you want to get her food then get her food. What do you two talk about?”

            “What normal people talk about. Books. Movies. I’ve asked her about what she wants to do after high school and she asked me about college. Apparently she’s a writer, too.”

            “Too?”

            “I wanted to be a sports writer,” I explained. “Then I got stuck with this shit job.”

            Hanji hummed and took a sip from a mug I hadn’t noticed. I hoped it was coffee and not another one of her energy-boosting concoctions that looked like something out of _Ghostbusters_.

            “She writes short stories. And a novel, apparently. She wants to be a writer and live as a hermit by the ocean,” I continued. Hanji hummed again and took another sip out of her mug. “Please tell me that’s coffee.”

            “It’s coffee with cinnamon, nutmeg, and ground cloves.”

            “Learned your lesson from using whole cloves, I see.”

            “You have no idea,” she said, cringing. I took another bite of cereal to keep myself from laughing at her. “So, you still haven’t told me what you’re doing today.”

            “Other than setting Sawney on fire,” I said, sparing a pointed glance downward at the cat who was still backed against the island, “I’ll probably read. Maybe take a walk.”

            “You should take Sawney for a walk.”

            “The fucker would be up a tree in a second,” I said.

            “Or down a storm drain.”

            “And it wouldn’t be too much of a loss, either.”

            The cat in question farted in defiance before smelling it and scampering away. Hanji and I smelled it several seconds later and did some scampering of our own, moving ourselves into the dining room instead.

            Once we finished talking I put my bowl and spoon in the sink and went to change into actual clothes. I dumped my pajamas in the laundry hamper and put on a t-shirt and jeans, coming back out into the living room to grab my car keys.

            “Where are you going?” asked Hanji from the couch. She had picked up _Lolita_ and was reading it from the beginning. I prayed to a god I didn’t believe in that she hadn’t removed my bookmark. “This is messed up shit. How do you read this? It’s like kiddie porn.”

            “It has an unreliable narrator and, contrary to popular belief, supports the age law,” I said, lying about why I liked the book. I actually liked it because it curbed my desires for Reaper, though not as much as it used to now that I was actually getting to know her. “And I’m going down to the beach.”

            “Don’t forget the cat leash,” she joked.

            “I won’t. See you later, Shitty Glasses.”

            “Bye, Shorty.”

            I left the house and locked the door before getting in the Shitpipe and driving away, heading out to the beach. I passed several grocers and drugstores, the place where the watermelon vendor was normally set up, a homeless man with a regrettably empty cup of change, and an empty Sina Academy. I eventually was able to see the ocean and the brightly colored beach houses which surrounded it as I drove down the highway, so I took the next exit and drive down several residential streets until I found a place to park. I parked the Shitpipe and then exited the vehicle, grabbing my sunglasses from the console and sliding them over my ears.

            The day was beautiful, with crystal blue skies stretching forever and a navy blue ocean with so few waves I thought it might be glass. As I walked down the coarse sand beach I was surprised to find that not many people were there with their annoying little children, but I couldn’t complain. The beach was empty and I was content.

            At least I thought the beach was empty. As I came closer to the end of the sand I found that I was approaching a small black blob, and the closer I came to it the more the blob resembled a person. Once I was about ten feet away from whoever it was I noticed that it was Reaper, her hair pulled back in a messy bun and her eyes squinting out at the ocean. I went and sat down beside her.

            “Hey,” I said. She was startled but managed to calm herself down, blinking several times and letting out a long puff of air.

            “Hey, Coach,” she said. I hated the way “coach” sounded in her voice.

            “Hm. Just call me Levi,” I said as casually as I could, looking back out at the ocean.

            “Okay.”

            “What brings you out here on such a nice day?” I asked.

            “Well, number one, it’s a nice day,” she deadpanned. “Number two, I come here a lot. I just like to look at the ocean.”

            “I thought you hated the water.”

            “I do.”

            When she didn’t elaborate I spoke again.

            “If you hate the water then why do you care about looking at the ocean?”

            “If you’re here to interrogate me then I’ll just leave.”

            “Never mind, then.”

            “It’s fine,” she said with a sigh, running one hand over her hair. “It’s just… kind of complicated.”

            “I wouldn’t believe you if you told me,” I said, recalling our conversation at Hunan on Monday.

            “Something like that.”

            After several minutes of silence she spoke again.

            “So what brings you out here on such a nice day?” she asked mockingly. I bumped my shoulder into hers and she nudged back.

            “I wanted to get out of the house. I’m tired of sitting in my living room reading _Lolita_ all the time.”

            “Why do you keep reading _Lolita?_ ” she asked.

            _Because I’m lusting over you and trying to remind myself just how bad of an idea that is._

            Instead of saying what I was thinking I told her what I had told Hanji, about the unreliable narrator and enforcement of the age law. She shrugged and stretched her arms over her head.

            “So is this all you’re doing today?” she asked.

            “Not sure,” I answered, looking out at the ocean. “Maybe. I’ll probably go home and read some more. Maybe write. What about you?”

            “This is probably all I’m going to do today.”

            “Why?”

            She shrugged again.

            “I just like looking at the ocean. Makes me wonder what it would be like to live in it.”

            “Would you live in it if you could?”

            She sighed.

            “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t know if I want to give up on writing just yet.”

            “You talk about it like living underwater is a possibility.”

            “There are submarines. I could join the navy and then mutiny.”

            “Do you think about this a lot?”

            “More than I’d care to admit, yeah.”

            I left it at that, instead continuing to sit and stare at the ocean in silence and enjoy Reaper’s presence.

            We eventually resumed conversation, talking more about books and movies and culture until the sun was setting in the west. The orange glinted off the water and got in our eyes, but neither of us bothered to shield our eyes from the glare.

            “I should probably get going,” she said. “They’re not all that happy with me being out here by myself as it is.”

            “The people at your shelter?”

            She nodded and pushed herself up to standing, then offered me a hand. I took it and hoisted myself up, not really surprised that she didn’t budge when I pulled down. We both brushed sand from ourselves.

            “I’m up there,” she said, thrusting a thumb behind her to indicate the bike lying on its side on a sand dune. A pair of sneakers was visible in its basket. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

            “Hold up,” I said, grabbing her wrist as she turned away. She immediately, probably automatically, circled her arm and yanked herself free. When she realized what she’d done she looked down at her feet.

            “Sorry,” she apologized as she tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “Habit.”

            “It’s fine,” I said, not pushing the subject by asking why it was a habit, even though I was infinitely curious. “I was just going to offer you a ride back.”

            “Do you think my bike can fit in your trunk?” she asked.

            “Only one way to find out.”

            She nodded her head again and went to get her bike. I followed her up the dune and walked her down to my car while she held her bike by its handles. She kept the bike between us and her eyes trained straight ahead.

            When we made it to my car we found that, yes, her bike did fit in the Shitpipe’s trunk. We closed the trunk together and got into the car, then buckled our seatbelts. I turned on the ignition and shifted the Shitpipe into drive, driving away. As we drove away I noticed Reaper leaning her head against the passenger’s side window and staring out at the sea. I wondered why she was so enamored by the ocean, but I also figured that I would never find out.

            The drive passed in silence as we passed the same Sina Academy, the same place where the homeless man usually sat, the same side-of-the-road watermelon vendor, the same drugstores and grocers. Reaper pulled out her phone and her earbuds, sticking the headphones into her ears and tapping her phone’s screen several times. The locked her phone and leaned her head against the window again.

            Once we arrived at Promise House she took one of her earbuds out and got out of the Shitpipe before I could park it. I pulled down on the gear shift until it was in park before getting out of the Shitpipe myself, going around to the back to open the trunk for her. She had already gotten it open and was carefully lifting her bike out of the car.

            “It took me two weeks to learn how to open the trunk of this damn thing,” I said.

            “I guess I’m just smarter than you,” she responded, not looking at me. I was glad she wasn’t, because she might have seen the little smile that threatened to crack on my face.

            I closed the trunk for her and watched as she secured the bike to the bike rack beside the stairs. She came back to the Shitpipe to say goodbye.

            “Thanks for today, Levi,” she said. My name on her tongue sent shivers down my spine and I hated it. I was going to have to reread _Lolita_ several times after I finished it. “And thanks for the ride.”

            “Don’t mention it,” I said. “Have a good one.”

            “You, too.”

            I turned around and got back into the Shitpipe, watching as she climbed the stairs to Promise House two at a time. It hurt to drive away.


End file.
